What Are the Odds
by C-chanYagami
Summary: Meg (OC) gets sucked back to 1899. Yeah, I know, REAL original. Well, try it. Please?


Jack: C-chanyagami may own Meg but she don' own us! She's puttin' us back weah she found us 'n' we's bein' real cooperative in alla dis, too. Da story hints at me 'n' Davey, and lemme tell yeh, I don' mind it much. Meg is da only original charactah, and if I say so meself, it's well wrote. Give it a chance 'n' review! Not strongly recommended feh da Jack or da Spot fans, but dey shouldn' be too insulted. Enjoy, 'n' if yeh need me or Davey, we's at Medda's.  
  
  
  
  
  
What Are the Odds?  
  
  
  
by C-chanyagami  
  
Warnings: Slight slash (Jack/Davey). Not explicit, just fluffy. I actually giggled in writing it. Don't worry, it's the side plot. Light Jack and Spot bashing, just for kicks.  
  
Rating: PG to PG-13 but I'm being conservative.  
  
Spoilers: Um, Newsies.  
  
Summary: Oy, I wrote a MAJOR Mary-Sue. I think it's well done, though, if not good. I tried to make her imperfect, and I hope I did. A girl gets zapped back to 1899. What will she do and will she stay? Can she stay and survive? Racetrack/OC eventually.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Tapping my pencil to my paper, I expressly ignored the question on my assignment. I took to settling my chin in my hand and staring out the window. The topic of the writing demands that were neatly printed across the top of my test was utterly tedious and I vehemently refused to comply. I sighed and retreated into my reliable daydream. In moments, my frustration and boredom dissipated and I was, as I too often am, back in 1899. My newsies cap sits jauntily on my head and I wave my papes, improving the less-than-ideal headline and hawking them for a penny each, a profit of fifty cents a hundred. I'm doing well today, and I might just sell my seventy. I'd be treating the boys to drinks tonight!  
  
A sharp tap brought my attention back. I sighed and quickly wrote some tripe or other, shoving the paper away from me. I knew I'd either do extraordinarily well or fail horribly, but either way I didn't really care. It was mid-April and I was positively bored out of my mind with anything and everything. Vacation or graduation couldn't come fast enough. I chuckled as the song Santa Fe came into my head. Where does it say a guy can't get a break? My pencil rapped out the theme to The World Will Know as I became even more dull-witted. The bell rang in a rather appropriate point and I chuckled in that way that one does when they've lost their mind and are perfectly cognizant about the fact. Rubbing my eye, I continued to my next class.  
  
I was irritated but not surprised that my eye was so itchy. It had been watery and scratchy all morning and I had just contributed it to my prolific allergies. Shrugging it off, I slammed my locker shut. In bringing my finger down from my eye once more, I saw the blasted culprit. A very short eyelash had lodged itself just under my lid and sat now haughtily on the tip of my finger. I dropped it on the back of my hand and wished silently as I blew it away. I sighed at my ignorant desires. I was no more a newsie than I was on time for my class.  
  
Swearing under my breath, I ran down the hallway, my books slipping precariously from my grasp. I flew around a corner as the texts fell from my hands. Graceful as I am, I stepped on a loose paper and fell forward, landing on my outstretched hands. I cried out in surprise and pain, my eyes scrunched shut. A few sharp pains dissolved, and I decided to remain on the ground for a few minutes.  
  
"Hey, is yeh all right, miss?"  
  
I nodded at the voice of concern and sat up, rubbing my eyes. I realized I would have no chance of being on time for class and I let the hand cupping my elbow stand me up.  
  
"Sorry, 'bout dat, lady. I didn' see yeh dere."  
  
At that statement, I opened my eyes and blinked a few times. I knew I hadn't bumped into anything, and I wondered why anyone would claim they were at fault. The sight that greeted my vision caused my head to fall into my hands once more. After a second, I held my head up and turned to the person who had claimed to knock me over. Racetrack smiled at me and peered into my red eyes. I nodded at my very insanity and looked down. My books were gone, but my attire had remained the same.  
  
"Yeh sure yeh okay?" Racetrack asked with polite concern. His eyes glanced down and widened at my shorts and casual button-down shirt that had been thrown over a plain tee shirt. "Where yeh come from that yeh gotta weah dat?" he asked, clearly appalled that a lady would be in public sans poofy skirt. Quickly, I created a story.  
  
"I was jes kicked outta me apahtment," I lied with a perfect-excuse me-poifect New York accent. "Dey trew me out wit a buck. Dis was all I could afford." I blushed appropriately and shook my head. "I dunno why I'm tellin' yeh dis. Ain't yeh problem. Tanks feh helpin' me up. I tink I can find enough to buy yeh las' pape." My hand pointed to the paper he held and I dug through my pockets, my hands glancing over tens and fives. I could finally find a penny and I handed it to Racetrack. He reluctantly relinquished the paper.  
  
"Hey, if yeh needs a place ta stay, I's can probably get yeh inta da lodging house feh da night." Racetrack smiled at me and pointed down the street. "It ain't much, but it's sometin'."  
  
I managed my best teary-eyed smile, which wasn't all that hard, considering I had just a moment ago been wiping irritated moisture from my eyes. Immediately, I shook my head.  
  
"I couldn' ask yeh ta do dat. I'll finds somewhere. I tink me cousin's still up in heah somewhere."  
  
Racetrack was about to allow me on my way, but his eyes fell to my clothes and rapidly away again, blushing. I noticed the embarrassment in his eyes for me, and I lowered my head in the appropriate shame.  
  
"I's can' letcha wandah da streets lookin' like dis. C'mon, yeh'll come wit me. What's yeh name?"  
  
"Meg," I nodded wearily and followed. My mind raced as I tried to decipher how I could fake as though I was from 1899.  
  
"Heah, Meg, c'mon. I's Racetrack." He led me gently into the decrepit building. "People's gonna tink yeh's a street walkah." I was pulled past Kloppman's office casually. "Hiya, Kloppman!" I didn't think sneaking into the lodge house could be quite so easy. I soon realized it wasn't.  
  
"Come on, Race, yeh know it's too late to be bringin' goils in heah. Take her home, like a gen'leman." Kloppman smiled politely at me, nodding ever so slightly. Despite this, I felt fear radiate through me. Where would I go?  
  
"Aw, c'mon, Kloppman! Can' yeh let it slide for me?"  
  
"I's let it slide feh yeh twice dis month. Now, I'm sorry, but she'll have ta go home. I'll expect yeh back by curfew, Race."  
  
Kloppman had spoken. I followed Racetrack out the door and we sat on the cold steps.  
  
"Sorry, Meg. I'd sneaks yeh in da back was, but it's a jump." Racetrack motioned with his hands to indicate the height to the fire escape. At about six feet, I was glad the jump wasn't a suggestion. "I tink dere's a hotel down on da next block yeh could try. Ah, dat's a dumb idea," he berated himself. "Yeh's ain't gots enough to pay yeh rent. Yeh can' pay feh a hotel none."  
  
I shook my head, the guilt of the twenty dollars in my pocket burning the back of my brain. I could well put the whole lodge up for a night or two with that.  
  
The two of us sat in deep thought for a good ten minutes, until a tall brunette with a bandanna approached, whistling an all-too-familiar tune. I recognized him immediately as Jack, but waited patiently to be introduced.  
  
"Meg, dis heah's Jack. Jack, dis is Meg." Racetrack stood as I stood and watched as Jack and I shook hands.  
  
"Nice ta meet yeh, Meg. I'd offah yeh a pape, but I sees Race got to yeh foist." Jack nodded at the crumpled paper in my lap. I glanced at it quickly and noted the headline. Crooked Cop Bounces Bucks. It went under my arm. "So am I ta tink yeh's Race's new goil?"  
  
Racetrack immediately shook his head, and I felt slightly put out. At least I had considered it. Racetrack was a favorite of mine and always had been. I suppose I considered this to be a dream and that all my dreams were somehow to come true in it.  
  
"Meg heah gots kicked outta her apahtment dis mornin' 'n' been tryin' all day ta find someplace ta stay." Racetrack looked over at me with concern and then back at Jack, who was musing the situation.  
  
"Yeh try gettin' her in da lodge house?" Racetrack nodded miserably and I looked desperately up at Jack. "Well, not wearin' dis. She'd be toined away like dat." Jack snapped his fingers. "Yeh gotta sneak her in. I gots an idea."  
  
In a minute, Jack had explained his plan and had gone into the lodge house, whistling all the way. Racetrack and I sat in tense silence for the five minutes he was gone. Not soon enough, Jack returned with a bundle under one arm, still whistling incessantly. The bundle was tossed at me and I saw Race's face contort with a touch of confusion.  
  
"Yeh's 'bout me height, huh?" Jack asked. I nodded and suddenly realized why Racetrack was worried. "Dese should fit yeh, den." Jack looked quite satisfied with himself until Racetrack spoke up.  
  
"Eh, Jack? Where's she supposed ta change?"  
  
Jack was silent for a minute, and his eyes roamed the street. He stopped short and pointed across the way and grinned. Race's face was the epitome of disgust and I paled faintly.  
  
"She can' jes change in public like dat! What if someone shows up 'n' tries ta get a look-see! She'll be humiliated!"  
  
I smiled a bit at Race's chivalry and decided I was going to like this age very much. The plan seemed stuck, though, so I pitched in a thought or two.  
  
"Yehs could stand guard. Make sure no one tries to get no looks."  
  
Jack and Racetrack exchanged looks and glanced back at me, politely keeping their eyes on my face and ignoring whatever skin was inappropriate in this time. They shrugged, clearly feeling that they would be happy to help if I didn't mind.  
  
We crossed the street, and I received some odd looks for looking both ways. Jack took my hand and led me into the alley, which was oddly clean and smelt tolerable. I walked in a bit and started to change. I was able to quickly jam the pants and shirt on, and the shoes and socks were simple enough, but I was having trouble with the suspenders Jack had swiped. I jammed the newsies hat on my head, tucking my short brown hair under the brim. Walking out of the alley, I called for Racetrack.  
  
"I'm havin' problems wit dese suspendahs. Could yeh help me out?"  
  
Racetrack bent to fasten the clasps and Jack was blushing fiercely in the other direction. I raised an eyebrow and thumbed at him.  
  
"What's wit 'im?" I asked. Racetrack shrugged.  
  
"I tink he tinks he looked."  
  
"Oh." I shrugged and passed Jack on my way across the street. "Hey, Jack, yeh's gonna help me out or yeh's jes gonna stand dere? I's not in da house yet."  
  
Jack jumped considerably and Racetrack chuckled, taking my hand to cross the street. Odd, as there was no legitimate traffic to be concerned with. I let it slide as a plot hole of my twisted subconscious and hoped for a moment I wasn't just sprawled out in the middle of the hallway at school. Jack sent Racetrack into the lodge house and waited a few minutes before following him. He was still whistling, and while I was vaguely aware of the tune, it was going straight through my head. I hoped this wasn't a permanent characteristic.  
  
"Heah, don' say nothin', okay? If all goes well, yeh'll pass feh one eh da newsies." He jerked his head in an indication that I was to follow, and, nervously, I did. As we started up the steps to pass Kloppman's office, I couldn't help risking a wary glance at the friendly old man. He smiled and nodded at me, and I immediately acted as though I hadn't seen, snapping my head back to Jack and tailing him up the stairs. Entering heedlessly into the bunk room, Jack transposed his tune. I stopped, a little unsettled at the thought of entering the room these boys slept in. It would have been unacceptable in my own time, and in this era where girls dressed in pants and short sleeves were frowned upon, I could only imagine the repercussions.  
  
Jack's head popped out the door with a confused look on his face. I explained my embarrassment and he turned to the room.  
  
"Hey, clean up some, boys! We's gots a visitah!" And with that, he pulled me in as though there was no discomfort. "Hey, yeh needs a bed, right? Den yeh's welcome heah." I nodded at the common sense for the cessation of the high whistling if not for the logic of the statement. "We's gonna put yeh up in one eh dem empty beds up back. Dat private enough feh yeh?"  
  
"Dat's fine," I nodded, tucking a stray curl under the hat I donned. I looked around at all the newsie boys lounging around in their precious free time. As it was appropriately late in the evening, I had to assume they had finished the day's work. Not many of them glanced twice at me, so I deduced that Racetrack had had the time to explain the situation to them. A few waved at me politely, clearly keeping their distance at the vulgar girl that had been found wearing pants of her own free will.  
  
I sat on the spare bed that had been set aside for me and was surprised at the comfort of the mattress. Expecting a hard but flimsy mat, I was pleasantly startled at the softness of it. I sank gratefully into the pillow and stared at the empty bunk above me, my wrist beginning to bother me from the way I had previously landed on it.  
  
One of the boys approached me warily, as though he expected me to bite, and his hand rested on the wooden sword on his belt. Les, I recognized, and I realized David must be around somewhere as well. Surely, as I looked up, I saw him and Jack talking in hushed tones in a dark corner. In the murkiness, I thought I saw Jack lift a hand to stroke David's cheek, but I could have been very wrong.  
  
"Hi," I greeted. Les narrowed his eyes at me and said simply,  
  
"Mush says since yeh wear pants yeh easy."  
  
I shook my head at Mush's perversity and looked down at Les. He was watching me for an answer before he ventured a name, I could see.  
  
"I ain't. I's Meg." I held out a hand and Les took it, pumping it firmly. This surprised me, but I was merely glad he had forgotten his sword.  
  
"I's Les. Dat guy ovah dere is my bruddah, David." Les turned immediately to his brother and brandished his little sword in the corner. "DAVID!" David jumped a good foot off the floor and jerked away from Jack, blushing violently. Jack's face had been suspiciously close to David's and he was now making an angry face at the wall David had been leaning seductively against. "Hey, David, come meet dis goil!"  
  
David stalked over, clearly frustrated and disappointed. Whatever had been interrupted had been looked forward to. Put out already, David seemed prone to fits of anger about now.  
  
"Les, quit the accent. You don't talk like that." David glanced over at me and I blinked, a little nervous. His face softened and he sighed. "Sorry. I'm David." He held out a hand to me and smiled.  
  
"I's Meg. Sorry I pulled yeh 'way from dat. Yeh's lucky," I sighed, shaking his hand. David paled a little and my eyebrows came together in confusion.  
  
"I'm sorry for the comment about the accent. I didn't mean any offense by it." He laughed nervously and raked a hand through his hair. I shrugged and waved my hand to dismiss it.  
  
"Fehget it. 'S nothin'." I stretched out on the bed and tucked my arms under my head. "Hey, where's Racetrack? I wanna tank 'im feh lettin' me stay. 'N' Jack, too. He helped a lot. I gotta tank 'em. 'N don' worry. I'll be outta heah in da mornin'." Sitting up, I scanned the room for the two boys. I had to let them know I would be leaving. I couldn't stand the guilt of lying for much longer, and the accent was growing a little too familiar.  
  
"Yeh leavin'?" Racetrack was at the foot of the bunk in seconds and he peered in at me, his hands crossed on the support bar above his head. "Where yeh gonna go? Yeh said yehself yeh ain't got no money." He looked sincerely concerned and I shrugged, struggling in my explanation.  
  
"I'll find someplace," I lied. I didn't want to leave, honestly. I mean, I was literally three feet from Racetrack; I was here in an age where the men cared and chivalry lived! But I couldn't stay here, clearly. If I had to sneak in somewhere, I wasn't welcome.  
  
"Look, why don' yeh carry da bannah wit us for a while, til yeh can make a few bucks? Den yeh can get out dere somewheres." I must have looked entirely confused, because Racetrack smiled and proceeded to explain. "Yeh can sign up wit Kloppman feh a position. We only hadda sneak yeh in tonight cuz yeh ain't a regulah. Goils ain't allowed in da boy's lodge, but yeh could get a room upstairs somewheres. I'd be happy ta lend yeh a few cents feh da foist few nights, til yeh make enough to pay yehself."  
  
I blinked frantically, taking in the information. Of course! Carry da bannah! Why not? I could stay in close enough proximity to the boys and never have to leave this age! How perfect! I nodded eagerly. Racetrack grinned and looked up as Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder and crossed behind him.  
  
"Yeh's doin' a good ting, Race." He turned to me and eyed me carefully. I fidgeted nervously, though I knew he could never guess the real truth. I had difficulty comprehending it myself, but I went with it because I got to stay here. Need I reiterate that I was three feet from Racetrack? I didn't think so. "So if yeh don' mind me askin', where's yeh family? Yeh say yeh was kicked outta yeh apahtment, but what abouts yeh parents? Yeh can't be more'n sixteen."  
  
I floundered for a moment, my mind racing. What was I doing in an apartment on my own at the age of sixteen? Frantically, I searched my writer's mind for an explanation.  
  
"My dad died when my mom was pregnant 'n' my mom died in childboith." The lies just flowed through my mouth with little to no effort. I watched myself with a mixture of pride and disgust. "I's been living wit my gran'muddah, but she died las' month. I been on my own since den, but dey figyad out dat I wasn' payin' no bills, so dey kicked me out." Expecting a look of complete doubt, I looked warily at Jack. I found him with a look of sympathy but not quite pity written on his face. Glancing at Racetrack, I saw a few unshed tears there, and I assumed he was remembering a family lost.  
  
"Yeh done good feh yehself, though," Jack managed, nodding, his voice a little husky. "We'd be proud ta have a newsie like yeh." I blinked back a wave of guilty nausea and nodded. The boys took my sullen look of illness as that of nagging despair, and I felt Jack's hand clap my shoulder. "Come on 'n' meet da boys. Yeh know me 'n' Race." He motioned to a group of boys playing cards in the corner and named them off. Mush, Itey, Dutchy, Skittery and Pie Eater waved at me from the poker game, and Specs, Snoddy, Jake, Boots, Crutchy, Snipeshooter, and Kid Blink each lifted a hand from their places in another corner where they were shooting craps. I was again shown Les, and Jack threw his arm over David's shoulders and introduced him by saying, "dis heah is Davey," and rubbing a hand through the boy's hair, releasing him with a tender smack.  
  
I greeted each of them and sat back on my bed. A series of raps on the door signaled curfew and the boys immediately dove to their respective beds, with the exception of David and Les, who exited to their family. The lights were blown out and the transition from a busy game room to peaceful bunk was startlingly rapid. I decided I'd best sleep soundly if I wanted to get up at the virtual crack of dawn the next day to hawk headlines.  
  
  
  
There was a loud rapping on my bunk the next morning, and I jumped several feet, I'm sure. Rolling quite literally off the mattress, I stumbled up, noting it was still dark out. I squinted at my assailant and sighed upon seeing Racetrack. Fighting the urge to flip him off and crawl back into bed, I grunted at him incoherently.  
  
"What, Racetrack?" I asked rudely. "Sleep." I pointed almost forlornly at my bunk and frowned like a toddler. He laughed at me and countered by pointing at the door.  
  
"Out," he chuckled. "C'mon, yeh gots ta get outta heah so Kloppman don' find yeh. Den yeh can come back in aftah he wakes us up. I'll yell down ta yeh. Besides, den yeh can say yeh slept in da street and mean it."  
  
It took me a good handful of pre-dawn minutes to comprehend the logic, but I soon nodded and let Racetrack stand me up. He led me to the door and gently pushed me out. I stumbled down the stairs as quietly as I could and sneaked out of the door. Thankfully, it was a little warmer than I had expected, so I was able to settle in on the front steps with little trouble.  
  
It was about an hour later that I heard a yell from above my head. I slowly turned and caught myself before falling off the step. I shielded my eyes from the morning sun and looked warily up at the open window.  
  
"Heya, Meg!" Racetrack was waving wildly and grinning. "I sent Jack down ta help yeh out; he should be dere in a minute!" A click at the front door revealed the brunette cowboy hopeful and I signaled to Racetrack that the reinforcements had arrived. Jack offered a hand to help me up. I decided not to bother smoothing out my clothes before entering the building. A rumpled I-just-slept-in-da-street look was useful.  
  
"Hey, Kloppman!" Jack's voice rang through the office and Kloppman appeared a moment later, smiling strangely at me. I panicked, fearing he found me familiar from the night before, but he merely tipped his hat at me. Jack caught his attention again by clapping my shoulder. "I's got a new recruit feh yeh. Found her on da steps."  
  
"I really needs dis job, mistah Kloppman, suh," I stuttered. I pulled Jack's hat off my head and twisted it in my hands. "I ain't gots nowheres ta stay and I gots ta make a few cents. I managed ta scrape up a few pennies feh da foist night or so." I spread out four pennies, which Racetrack assured me was two nights at the lodge, and Kloppman scooped them into a small tin box. In their place he dropped a bundle of clothes and a pair of heeled boots.  
  
"This should be all yeh'll need," he nodded. "Up da stayahs ta yeh left is da goil's lodge. I'm sorry, miss, but yeh's da only goil we's got so fah. If yeh hurry, yeh can catch da mornin' edition eh The World and make a few cents."  
  
Grabbing the clothes and shoes, I curtseyed my thanks and made a mad dash up the stairs, tossing Jack's hat at him on my way. I banged through the door and hurriedly shook out the...dress? I frowned with anger but realized that historically, this was pretty darn accurate. Resentfully, I jammed it on and tied my boots tightly before flying down the stairs again. I jangled a few coins in my pocket and hoped Weasel wouldn't check dates on my currency--assuming he was the one distributing. The line there was long, and I stepped up right behind Crutchy. He smiled warmly and saw my confused face as I calculated over my money. Waiting a moment before saying anything, he watched me struggle to recall the cost from the movie--which probably wasn't the greatest of reference points.  
  
"Can' count so great, huh?" he asked politely. "Heah," he reached for a quarter in my left hand and held it up, "dis is woith two bits. It'll get yeh fifty papes." He handed me the quarter again and we shuffled up in line. "Papes go feh a penny each--dat's fifty cents profit on a hundred papes." I made a perplexed look that I deemed appropriate, and Crutchy grinned. "Yeh'll get it soon enough. Hey," he added, "I'd start with fifty papes if I was yeh and hit Toid Avenue. It's pretty busy in da mornin'." He turned to the window and ordered his papers with a smile. I called my thanks after him and proudly slammed my quarter down on the counter.  
  
"Fifty papes," I nodded. With no comments or even a side glance, the papers were shoved at me and I was pushed aside by a newsie I did not know. I huffed and smoothed my skirt, which ruffled loudly in the wind. I glanced down at the headline and groaned. Trolley Strike Drones On, Reinforcements Brought In. Starting towards Third Avenue, I realized how many fifty papers actually were. But I recognized the immense profit, too. In modern times, fifty papers would cost twelve dollars and fifty cents, but I'd make double that in selling them. So it was well worth the smelly ink and dirty fingers. I reached Third Avenue and started hawkin'. "TROLLEY STRIKE CONTINUES! NUMBERS DWINDLE AFTER RIOT!" Improving the truth sold me a few papes, and I suppose running away after I sold the faulty headlines didn't hurt. I was proud of my first five or ten papes, but after the initial burst, it got rough. I fluttered my paper before a lady that looked upper class and she stepped back. "Buy a pape, miss? Just a penny!"  
  
"Well, I should certainly say not," she spat. "Really, how dreadful! A nice young lady like you simply ruined!" I stepped back myself after that, but shrugged it off. It was one customer; they couldn't all be like that.  
  
But after an hour, I realized that most of them were. I was only down to twenty-seven papers, and it was an hour until the afternoon edition. A slight panic rose in me, and I resolved to stick to twenty papers from now on. A young man passed by me and I thrust out a hand, brandishing a paper desperately.  
  
"Buy a pape, suh? Just a penny!" I grinned hopefully, but the man stood back with a look of pure shock. His eyes went wide and his shock melted into disgust. He stepped aside and walked on without a word. I fumed and turned to the crowds. "TROLLEY STRIKE CONTINUES! NUMBERS SHRINK IN RIOTS!"  
  
"Hey, I ain't seen yeh 'round befoah." A voice came from my left and I huffed, rolling my eyes at the expected tirade. "Yeh new?" I managed another sale to a charitable woman who actually gave me an extra penny before I turned.  
  
"Yeah, I's new. How can yeh tell?" I spat. The young man's eyebrows quirked and his shocked pause gave me a chance to give him the once over. His checked newsies cap came down over his eyes, but I could see enough of his light brown hair peeking out from under the brim. His eyes themselves glittered with puzzlement, light blue with a touch of green. The boy was short in stature and a little slender, but for a newsboy in 1899, he looked pretty good. He smiled widely and I was surprised at the charming grin.  
  
"Cuz yeh still got a stack eh mornin' papes and it's nearin' noon." He nodded at the papers and I narrowed my eyes. I hollered at a sudden multitude of people but was unable to make a sale. Frowning with anger, I looked back at my papers and saw the boy skimming a copy.  
  
"Hey, I gots ta sell dat," I chastised. He shrugged and sat on a step.  
  
"When yeh down ta jes dis copy, yeh let me know, 'n' I'll give it back." He shook the paper out and slumped on the stair, perusing the articles. His cocky smile showed from under his hat as he read. I glared at him but was able to hawk another paper. Down to twenty-five, I was grateful to get through half my papers. At least I made one cent.  
  
"Yeh know, I wouldn' have such a problem wit yeh readin' my profits if I knew yeh name." Smiling, the boy lowered the paper and offered an open expression. He stood, folding the paper and tucking it under his arm before spitting on his hand and holding it in front of me. Without hesitating, I spat in my own hand and met his.  
  
"I's Spot Conlon," he offered, shaking my hand. The name clicked and I nodded. Spot dropped the paper back on my stack and jammed his hands in his pockets. "'N' yeh are?"  
  
"I's Meg Kenshaw." A penny was pressed into my hand and I looked up in time to see someone take a paper and dash off. I slipped the payment into my little bag I had tied to my waist. I'd made two cents thus far! Given, I had twenty dollars in my pocket as well, but I had deemed them worthless in this time, being paper, and these were pretty much the first two cents I'd ever made. It also ensured me another night at the lodge house. I glanced over my shoulder at Spot and found him shaking his head.  
  
"No wondah yeh ain't sellin' nothin'. Yeh goin' about it all wrong!" He snatched up a paper and ran into the crowd. "RIOT AT TROLLEY STRIKE! READ IT HEAH, FOLKS! FIVE MISSING, SCABS BROUGHT IN! JUST A PENNY, PEOPLE!" In seconds, he returned, a little breathless, and folded a penny in my palm. "Run!" he laughed, grabbing up my papers. He pulled me by my hand, which still held the cent piece, and dragged me through a back alley. "Yeh gotta really improve da headlines. And once yeh done dat a coupla times, yeh gotta get outta dere quick." He grinned at me as I stared at him as though it was his hat talking.  
  
"Really," I drawled. "I figyad it was cuz I's a goil." This accent was starting to be a little too comfortable. Spot shrugged uncomfortably at my comment and glanced away. "So dat's it," I nodded. Gathering my papers, I turned and started out of the alley. "Tanks, Spot, but I's gotta get back to toin in da rest eh my papes. Aftanoon edition's gonna be out in 'bout half an hour." I stalked off, head held high, and pulled up my skirt enough that it didn't drag in the dust. This attracted more shocked looks than the stack of papers in my hand, and I dropped my hem.  
  
By the time I reached the distribution office, the line of newsies was about as long as it had been that morning, and I slammed my stack of leftovers on the crates that were there for such a reason. In line once more, I found myself behind none other than Racetrack. He pivoted once to peer at the large clock overhead, then turned again when he saw me.  
  
"Hey, Meg!" he smiled, flicking ashes off the end of his cigar. "How's yeh foist day eh sellin' papes?" I counted out ten cents as he bought his papes and I spread them over the counter. "Yeh only gettin' twenty papes?" he asked, a little shocked. "Why's dat?" I pointed angrily at my stack of abandoned news, which stood out more than the others of four or five papers. Race's eyes widened and a low whistle escaped him. "Hey, don' worry 'bout it. Why don' yeh tag along wit Jack and take a few pointahs?" I glared at the Irish newsie and stormed away before turning, a thought returning to me.  
  
"I's already gotten pointahs, tank yeh. I's met someone down by Toid and E, and dey was kind enough ta show me dat I wasn' sellin' no papes coz eh my skoit." I huffed off again to find another selling point, and heard Jack follow me, catching up after having talked to Racetrack.  
  
"So yeh's met Spot, I see. Don' let 'im bug yeh. He's always been a little cocky. Yeh jes gotta let it go 'n' ignore 'im." Jack clapped a hand on my shoulder and led me to a post that must have been a good area, and I pulled away a little.  
  
"I ain't gonna ignore 'im," I pressed. "He's da only one dat can see da truth." I tried my toughest look on the tall boy, but he only laughed. Glaring, I asked him what he found to be quite so humorous. He grinned maddeningly at me and shrugged, his empty hands to the sky.  
  
"Yeh known da kid tree minutes and yeh gettin' all gooey." Jack sat casually on a fence post and shook his hair from his face. He feathered the edges of his papers and flipped one open to glance over the headlines and columns. "Heah," he motioned, pointing to my stack. "Go on; don' wait feh me."  
  
I read a few headlines myself before hawking anything. A few pages bore nothing but political jargon. Can't sell what you don't understand, so I moved on. Finally, I found something I could work with, and I jumped up on the fence next to Jack.  
  
"MAHKET CRASH! STOCKS PLUMMET!" I immediately sold three copies and I looked to Jack, whom I found shaking with silent laughter. "What? I made tree cents, didn' I?" Jack nodded and I frowned at the headline. Carnegie Steel Down Ten Points. "Yeh best try dat one downtown on Wall Street. Provided yeh don' get soaked foist." I fumed at him as I stomped off.  
  
I hawked my papers as I walked, using the same headline, and I sold a good five more copies by the time I reached Third and E again. I found Spot there already, and I could feel the smoke curl from my ears as it did his cigarette.  
  
"Hey, Conlon," I called. He turned and bowed before selling another copy. "Conlon, yeh on my cornah!" He merely shrugged as I approached.  
  
"I's sorry, miss, but I don' see yeh name on da cement."  
  
"Yeh's gonna see my fist on yeh face if yeh don' move!" I countered, backing up the threat by lifting an angry fist to the level of my eyes. Spot shook his head and sold yet another paper. Heat rose behind my eyes and I furiously knocked Spot's hat from his head. It fell to the ground with a soft clap and Spot's eyes went wide. As he bent to retrieve it, I resisted the urge to literally kick his rear end. "If I only hadda slingshot," I huffed, perfectly aware of the irony but not really caring. Spot straightened and smirked at me. I tried to sell my papers, but he stood directly in front of me. I narrowed my eyes in frustrated exasperation. Spot's azure eyes crossed and he grinned, sticking his tongue out.  
  
"Yeh gots a nick yet?" He stepped a little closer, and I suddenly realized my skirts were whipping around his ankles. I jerked the hems away from him as his hands crossed behind his back. His nose came close to mine and I tried to pull back without falling over. I shook my head as answer to his question, and his grin spread. One hand appeared, holding his staff. Spot tapped this on my shoulder, close to my throat and leaned his head to my ear. "Tell yeh friends I's dubbed yeh 'Latch,'" he whispered.  
  
"Why?" I asked, surprising myself with my soft tone that had lost all anger. Spot Conlon was giving me a nickname! He backed off a bit, but I was still able to feel his breath on my face.  
  
"Yeh oined it. Yeh gots da key." He smiled cryptically and tapped my shoulder once more before pulling it away. I pulled my eyebrows together in confusion.  
  
"Key ta what?" I asked, hostile. Spot's grin grew maddeningly and he turned away. He walked off a bit, then returned to gather his papers.  
  
"Yeh'll see soon enough," he chuckled. "Da cornah is yehs, miss." He bowed and tipped his hat, his hair tumbling over his eyes. He tucked it back and walked on. I turned my head angrily and hollered into the street with the lingering hope of selling out my papes.  
  
Unfortunately, I was only able to wheedle my way out of half my papers. I sighed as I pulled out the pocket watch Racetrack had lent me. He claimed he didn't really need it and that he knew that when he ran out of papers, it was time for the next edition. The watch showed six-thirty. I had a half hour until the evening edition, and I peered into my pouch to observe my profits. Twenty-eight cents stared up at me, a profit of three cents. I frowned and mused the idea of stopping for the day. I had enough to pay for another night's rent and scrape by with a limited dinner. Oddly enough, I wasn't hungry. Perhaps I would see what the Manhattan boys were planning before I made a decision.  
  
I thought briefly but suddenly of what I would be doing if I hadn't been sent here. Nearly seven, I would most likely be finishing off my history homework and starting supper. I laughed in spite of myself as I started back to the distribution office. The things we were learning in my history class hadn't even happened yet. Why, I was living ten percent of my curriculum just by standing on this corner! I considered supper. I would probably be sitting down to something frozen and cooked in the microwave. Not much to be missing, but still, a hot meal sounded good. Maybe I'd get ten or twelve evening papers after all.  
  
I dropped my ten papers on the crates as I had that morning and thought fleetingly about the fact that there was almost no chance these residuals were being recycled. I shrugged and fell into line behind an unknown newsie. A sharp tap on my shoulder brought my attention.  
  
"Da guys is stayin' in tanight ta play pokah. Yeh in?" Mush grinned at me and I shrugged. I fingered my few cents and shook my head uncertainly. "Aw, c'mon," Mush begged, tugging like a little boy on my sleeve.  
  
"I gotta make a few more cents, Mush," I declined. "I ain't barely gots enough ta get suppah 'n' pay feh da night at da lodge. 'N' if I do, I can' get more 'n' twenty papes in da mornin'. 'N' I needs dem papes, Mush." Peering up the line, I saw that I was still about five newsies from the front. Mush tugged at my sleeve again and grinned.  
  
"I'll spots yeh da difference tamorrow," he offered.  
  
I stepped back a bit, surprised that he would offer such a thing to me, having known him only the day. I knew, though it hadn't been shown explicitly, that there were a few newsies in Manhattan that wouldn't touch me if they had to. Perhaps it was the fact that I was found wearing less clothes than Medda after a show, and perhaps it was because I got a private room. Maybe it was something as menial as the fact that I was a female newsie, but judging by my lack of profits, they had no competition.  
  
"Look, Mush, I ain't even know how ta play pokah! I's gotta gets back ta woik." I turned to see if I was any nearer the window, which I wasn't, and Mush laid a hand on my shoulder before resting his chin on his hand.  
  
"Race'll teach yeh ta play. C'mon!" I hesitated and Mush grinned at me. "I know yeh likes 'im." He teased me, poking my shoulder as he backed off. "Maybe yeh'll be a slow loinah, eh?" he tormented.  
  
I made a sour face and stepped up. I groaned in seeing that I was no nearer the window. My feet throbbed suddenly, as though reminding me that I had been walking for the past twelve hours. I muttered at the insensible shoes I had been granted and decided that my first purchase would be a pair of good, flat shoes. My mind flashed to the heels I had seen on women's feet today and realized that was unlikely. I recalled with a sudden burst of excitement the bookstore I had sold in front of today and thought perhaps I could save for a novel. I would have to duck in there tomorrow and price some paperbacks. In my next step, my foot ached sharply and I turned to Mush.  
  
"I'll take yeh up on dat offah tamorrow."  
  
Linking my arm with Mush's, I leaned on him as he led me to the lodge house. He expressed concern for me on my first day selling, and gave me a few pointers, which I accepted more readily than those from Spot. I stopped short in the street with my eyes wide and an expression of my own pure stupidity glazing my face.  
  
"Of course I ain't sold more'n twenty papes! I's standin' in front eh a bummin' bookstore all day!" Mush laughed at me and quickly covered it.  
  
"Well, yeh's loinin'. Dat's sometin', I guess. C'mon, Jack wants ta staht da game soon. 'Sides, we's wanna get dere 'fore Race gets a chance to lose all his money." I laughed and caught up to Mush as he moved on.  
  
It wasn't much longer before we reached the lodge house, and I thanked God that we had, as my feet felt ready to bust out of my shoes. Mush and I signed in with Kloppman and paid our fee for the night. I hobbled up the stairs behind Mush and as easily as he waltzed into the boy's lodge, I held back, feeling the need to be invited in. An older newsie eventually threw open the door angrily and glared at me.  
  
"Yeh comin' in or what?"  
  
I sensed a derogatory slur added mentally, and I stood tall and stepped in, my toes paining me with every stride. Although I could manage to cross the room, I immediately took a seat as it was offered to me. I looked up and saw Jack at the seat immediately opposite me. Rather, I heard his incessant whistling and I looked up. The pitch stopped as he grinned stupidly at me and commenced the shuffling of the ragged cards. I sighed and rolled my eyes, looking away and hoping others would join the table before I had to attempt to make conversation with him that would be in no way intelligent. I had no patience with people like this, and Jack just generally rubbed me the wrong way.  
  
"Can yeh deal, too? Or are yeh only able ta shuffle the cahds and whistle like a broken kettle?" I spat at Jack and he blinked, eyes going wide. He laid the cards down and slid them to the center of the table. He continued to stare at me and smile, looking a little daft, but the tuneless whistle ended. I fumed at his very eyes on me, and sighed pointedly as Racetrack sat to my left and the unidentified newsie that had let me in so rudely sat to my right.  
  
"So, Meg, yeh in, too, huh?" Racetrack grinned. "Prepeah ta lose, dollface." My angry eyes flashed next to him and I breathed fire.  
  
"My name is not dollface," I growled. Racetrack lifted his hands defensively and smiled. He began to deal and suddenly stopped. I cocked my head and tried to urge him on in every way besides wrenching the cards from his hands. "What?" I asked impatiently. Racetrack frowned and turned.  
  
"Anyone else playin'?" he called. "We's shoht one." Several newsies declined rapidly, swearing against ever playing with Racetrack again. Jack slouched in his chair and I glared at him.  
  
"Sit up straight, bummah," I shot. Taken aback, Jack sat straight as a board, surprised I had said anything to him. "Yeh looks like some uneducated street rat." Jack shot me a sprawling grin and I shuddered.  
  
"Dollface, I am an uneducated street rat," he smiled. I flipped him off and Racetrack chuckled at our banter. He attempted several more times to gain another player for our game, but soon gave up. He gathered the cards with disappointment and shuffled them idly. "Yeh gonna hollah at 'im, too, feh not dealin'?" Jack teased.  
  
"Naw, honey, I lets 'im do what he wants. He's cute." Jack scoffed at my reply but refused to answer, lacking a wisecrack for once. Racetrack watched us and laughed.  
  
I suddenly recognized the sickeningly sweet scent of smoke and I judged that a good fifty percent of the lodge house must have lit up. I coughed pointedly and watched as Racetrack snuffed his cigar carefully, so that it may be of use to him later. The ashtray, which was no more than old tinfoil folded into a bowl of sorts, was pushed aside and Racetrack pointed to it while raising an eyebrow at Jack. The taller boy took a long last drag and quashed the butt, blowing the smoke in a harsh stream at me. Racetrack smacked him.  
  
"Yehs two is funny. Dis is gonna be a fun game," he paused and turned over his shoulder to holler, "if we's can get anyone else ta play!" A barrage of rude gestures and insults came down upon him and he shook his head.  
  
"Yeh tink I'm fun now, wait til I gets sometin' ta eat." I stuck my tongue out at Jack as Racetrack pleaded for a fifth. As he was giving up and dealing for go fish, the decrepit door burst open and a brown paper sack preceded a newsie that was welcomed warmly. My mouth watered at the thought of food, but any chance of getting sustenance soon flew out the window, as the bag was passed around the room in the opposite direction  
  
"Nevah feah, Brooklyn's heah," the visitor called.  
  
I groaned, as did, to my surprise, several others. I looked around, wondering if everyone else was as aggravated at this leader of newsies as I was. They weren't, as they readily welcomed him in and tore the bag from his grasp. They oohed and aahed at the contents and dispersed the delectable food that emerged from the moist paper sack. I swallowed desperately.  
  
"Don' yeh tink yeh' had enough fun wit dat line, Spot?" someone called. He shrugged and strolled over to the table where we sat, attempting to play cards. He leaned on the table and sighed dramatically.  
  
"I hoid yeh needs a fifth ta play pokah," he drawled, pulling up a chair between myself and the previously mentioned newsie whose name I had not learned, and, judging by his predisposition toward me, would not. Spot folded his arms over his hat, which he had tugged off and laid on the table, and leaned over to look pointedly at Racetrack, who held the remainder of the deck.  
  
"Yeah, we's could use yeh help, Conlon," Racetrack simpered, reaping for the second time all the cards. He caught a look at me and suddenly recalling a handful of manners, he motioned to Spot and began introductions. "Dis is Spot. Spot, dis is--"  
  
"Latch," Spot interrupted. He reached for my hand to kiss it in an attempt at gentlemanly manners and I wrenched away from him. He grinned and mouthed the word, 'feisty.' I resisted the urge to slap him, seeing it would only worsen the situation. I returned to staring at the table, which wobbled under my touch. To let out my anger, I kicked Jack viciously under the table. He cried out and I shrugged.  
  
"Oh, so dis is da 'someones' yeh met down on Toid 'n' E," Racetrack nodded. "Yeh didn' mention yeh gots a nick outta dis meeting'."  
  
Racetrack stared at me pointedly and I looked away. I shrugged, and Spot faked an appalled expression. His mouth dropped open as his cerulean eyes widened and glittered, and his hand shot to his chest.  
  
"I's insulted," he gasped. "Yeh didn' tell dese fine gen'lemen dat I made yeh acquaintance? And dat I deemed yeh woithy eh a nick? Dese are da tings yeh tell people!"  
  
I glared at him as he grinned at me, his shocked demeanor dissipating into glee while he met my gaze. His chestnut hair fell over his eyes and for a millisecond, I wanted to brush it away. I got over it and suddenly had an almost irresistible drive to smack the blue out of his eyes.  
  
"So what's da meanin' ta dis nick, Spot?" Jack cut into our visual sparring and my eyes shot to him, narrowing like slits. He grinned like an idiot at me and I decided I would hit him once I had taken care of Spot.  
  
Seeing that the game was not about to start anytime soon, the unnamed newsie left the table, leaving Racetrack to watch me try to murder Jack with my eyes and keep Spot from saying anything raunchy. Racetrack smiled secretly but made no effort to help me. I glared a bit at him, too. I was a little outnumbered and definitely had no experience in this sort of argument, having no siblings to practice on. The only being I had ever truly yelled at was my pet and he paid me no heed. Racetrack opened his mouth and spoke around his unlit cigar, which had once more found its way to his lips.  
  
"Yeah, c'mon Spot, don't hold out on us heah. We's curious," he added.  
  
I could have killed him, had he not been the one who got me a place to stay and clothes to wear. My eyes turned to Spot, worried and unsettled.  
  
"Well, it's obvious," he shrugged, picking at his hat as a satisfied smirk came over him. "She's got da key." This cryptic message hit everyone about as hard as it had me, and the whole of the table raised a collective eyebrow in confusion.  
  
"Key ta what?" we asked in unison.  
  
Racetrack reached for a match to light his cigar and Jack lit up another cigarette himself. Spot, avoiding the question expertly, reached for a square bulge in his shirt.  
  
"Yeh rude, Kelly," he chastised, pulling out a half empty pack of cigarettes. "Yeh ain't offahed da lady nothin'." He held the pack out to me and I declined immediately, making a sickened face at the very idea. I expected him to withdraw a smoke, but the pack went straight back into his pocket. I raised an eyebrow and he shrugged. "Nevah touch da stuff," he admitted. "Makes me sick."  
  
His expression became almost adorable as he blushed and reached for the shot glass of think, overly red wine before him. He sniffed it and laid it down, pushing it away with a disgusted face at the very alcoholic odor that reached even me. "Cheap stuff, I can tell," he choked.  
  
"So yeh ain't ansahed da question, Conlon. What kinda key does Latch heah got? It's gotta be figyative, coz we ain't seen no key." Racetrack brought us back on track and started to deal, but not before each had anted up one cent to start.  
  
I noticed that suddenly there was no problem in playing with only four people now, but I kept my ideas to myself. I picked up my hand and stared at it blankly, without the faintest idea as to what I was doing. After a moment, however, as Jack and Racetrack tormented Spot, I managed to recall a few key moves and rearranged my cards. I bet a penny and lay down two cards. Racetrack dealt without a second thought. I put in my two cents, quite literally, after I received my hand and waited.  
  
"I's seen dis so-called 'key,'" Spot grinned. "But she don' know she gots it yet. It'll come 'round soon enough." He discarded one and bet three cents. He decided after all to down the shot of wine and grimaced as he slammed the glass down. Jack filled it again. "Dat stuff's horrible," he groaned, waving Jack on in the pouring. Spot downed another shot and frowned.  
  
"Spot, yeh confuse me," Jack chuckled, musing forever over his hand. Over the course of the next hour, it seemed, he shifted his cards in his hand and rummaged through his small stack of pennies endlessly. Each card needed to be in just the right spot and at just the proper angle, and the pennies had to be in a perfectly cylindrical tower. I fumed at the lack of initiative.  
  
"Doesn' take much," I muttered with irritation.  
  
Racetrack caught my comment and nodded sagely before indulging in a private laugh. Mush took the free seat and was promised to be dealt in next hand.  
  
"Hey, happy!" I barked suddenly at Jack. "Less checkin', more bettin'!" He stuck his tongue out at me and flapped through his cards once more. "Yeh do this jes ta ruffle me feathahs, don' yeh, smiley," I hissed. My fingers tightened on the table and my mouth thinned as he grinned at me proudly. After an eternity, he bet one penny and nodded at Racetrack, who immediately tossed four cents in.  
  
"Call," he grinned eagerly. I glared at Jack before reviewing my hand. Nothing seemed sequential to me and I shrugged, closing my hand and regretting the small bet I had made. All my profits today, gone on a lousy game of cards I barely knew how to play.  
  
"Fold," I muttered bitterly.  
  
Jack and I slapped our cards down simultaneously, and his infuriating smirk shone once more. We turned to Spot, who was glaring at his cards so violently, I feared they would burst into flame. While I did not verbally harass him, I did drum my fingers loudly in annoyance at his dawdling. Spot glanced first at my fingers, then up at me, before narrowing his eyes. He winked at me, and I immediately saw red. I must have risen out of my chair, as I soon felt Race's hand on my arm and saw Spot's eyes grow wide with surprise. He grinned at me and dropped his cards.  
  
"Shoulda called yeh Snap," he laughed, spreading out his three of a kind.  
  
I would have attacked him then and there had Racetrack not sworn loudly. Of course Spot would win. Just one more injustice in the circle of life. I thought briefly of my peaceful room at home and I wondered if this was what it was like to have brothers.  
  
"Deah me!" Racetrack muttered, calming a little. "Dat was my las' five cents!" he flared again. He turned over his cards and showed several mismatched faces and numbers. He swore again and began to gather the cards. Spot stopped him with a hand.  
  
"Hol' it. I wanna see what the broad's got," the small boy smirked. He reached for my cards and I slapped a hand over them protectively. "C'mon, dollface," he drawled, covering my hand with his. My mouth tightened as I smelled the cheap wine on his breath. I turned my head and wrinkled my nose at the sour scent. Spot's cheerful demeanor faded.  
  
"I folded."  
  
My statement came out coolly, though I felt the need to rip those maddening eyes out of Spot's head. His hand felt exceedingly hot on mine and I would have pulled away would he not jump for my cards. We glared at each other for a few tense moments until I felt Jack pull my cards out from beneath my hand.  
  
"Hey!" I yelled, my voice high with indignation and a trace of my Boston accent. I jumped out of my chair at grabbed at the cards. Racetrack watched on with a touch of amusement and clearly no ideas to help. Spot watched with a grin on his face, and for a split second, I decided his smile was his best feature--if he had to have any good feature. "You give that here!" I hollered at Jack, my New York twang disappearing altogether. Thankfully, no one called me on it, and Jack did return my cards--face up. I groaned, embarrassed at my poor hand. I laid my head in my hands as three pairs of scrutinizing eyes peered at the hand. Mush had quietly slipped off when Spot had downed his second or third shot.  
  
"Deah me, yeh hadda full house, trees ovah fives!" Racetrack gasped. "Why'd yeh fold? Yeh coulda creamed 'im!" Race's brown eyes were wide with amazement, and he was holding his hat on as though he truly believed it could shoot off. I would have laughed had he not been so shocked. Was my hand really any good, or were they mocking me?  
  
"I didn' tink me trees would beat Conlon's sixes."  
  
I shrugged, nonplused. The boys burst into disbelieving laughter, and Spot shook his head while he tossed my three pennies back at me. Jack slumped in his seat, laughing gently with his head resting against the back of the chair he settled in. Racetrack pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his hair, chuckling as he pulled together the cards to deal once more. I chucked the coins at Spot again, a little bitterly.  
  
"Broad can' even play pokah," Spot gasped, still in the midst of a laughing fit.  
  
Before Racetrack could hold me back, I was standing over an upset chair and Spot, sprawled on the floor, holding his cheek with amazement. I dropped to kneel on his chest, grabbing at his collar violently, holding up a threatening fist to his face. He actually shrank away a bit as I growled at him.  
  
"I ain't no broad. I ain't no dollface, sweetlips, hotlips, or feisty, neither. Maybe I can' play no pokah, but I knows enough ta shut up when I ain't got no right ta be speakin' none." I jerked on Spot's shirt and he nodded quickly, squeaking an okay. My eyes flamed and I refused to get up. Eventually, Racetrack and Jack were able to pry me off. I strained against them as Spot stood and dusted himself off haughtily. A sudden silence assaulted my ears and a low murmur ensued once the room realized I had jumped Spot for a reason other than to get his pants off of him. Jack leaned his head to my ear and I shuddered as his long, unkempt hair brushed my cheek.  
  
"Yeh ain't too bright, sittin' on Spot like dat," he breathed. I jerked away from him. He grinned and shrugged at me. Glancing at Racetrack, my safety net for the past day, I heard him muttering.  
  
"Not healthy," he murmured, rubbing his eyes. He took me by the arm to pull me away from Spot, but the wiry boy grasped my wrist. He tugged me away from Racetrack almost easily and I looked helplessly at the gambler as I realized I might not be able to control myself. Racetrack seemed unable to help and I groaned internally. My face set in a look of calm hatred and anger, I faced Spot.  
  
My stomach made an indication that it was currently empty and I laid a hand over it to quiet the rumble. I worriedly followed Spot as he pulled me out of the bunk room. As he closed the door behind us, I heard a wave of sound begin in the room we had vacated. Spot pulled me a few feet from the door and spun me to face him. I narrowed my eyes and wrenched free of his grasp.  
  
"What yeh gots against me, eh?" he asked angrily. His cerulean eyes were tinged darkly with a ring of purple. It seemed as though he was hurt. Well, I was about to burst that little bubble of his that said everyone had to love him and all the girls needed to come to him with their skirts over their heads.  
  
"Well, ta staht, yeh ain't gots no respect feh me," I spat. Spot nodded as though accepting this fact and urging me on. "Yeh use dem demeanin' nicks feh me and make it look as though yeh 'n' me been 'round da block a few times." Again, he nodded, blushing a little, although that may have been attributed to the alcohol. "Yeh drink, 'n' I don' like dat in a young man like yeh." Spot smiled innocently and gave me a 'who, me?' glance. I pulled the ripcord. "'N' what is it wit dis nick yeh given me? Latch? Don' make no sense, Conlon. I ain't got no key ta nothin'."  
  
Spot bit his lip and I could tell he didn't want to tell me about his reasons just yet. Well, I was going to get that reason before I got zapped out of here against my will. If I was going back, it was kicking and screaming and with a legitimate reason for the fact that Spot thought I deserved a nickname. I lunged for Spot's collar and he shuffled back nervously, holding his hands up in defense.  
  
"C'mon, Conlon, whadda I got dis mystical 'key' ta?" I prodded him until I thought his cheeks would flare up, they were so red.  
  
"Muhaht," he muttered, looking down. I stepped up to him and he tugged his hat down. "Muhaht," he repeated.  
  
"Spot Conlon, if yeh don' tell me, I's gonna get Racetrack ta tell me yeh real name."  
  
"My heart," he hissed venomously, storming off after a punch to my shoulder. He slammed the door behind him and I blinked once as he ran by the window, cheeks aflame and eyes ablaze. He stopped at the corner to kick a wall before taking off down the street. I stepped back and again my hunger made itself known. The door yielded easily under my touch and I stepped silently into the room.  
  
"Any eh dem sandwiches left?" I asked idly. Half a chicken salad sandwich was passed to me and I stared blankly at the table as I ate. Racetrack again took his seat to my left and the old chair creaked under his weight. His hat was once more atop his head and his chocolate eyes searched me with concern.  
  
"Where's Spot?" he inquired quietly, shuffling his deck mindlessly as I finished my supper.  
  
"Went home," I muttered, wiping my mouth. Racetrack lifted his eyes in a gesture of surprise.  
  
"Dis late?"  
  
Anger, embarrassment, and disgust flared up in me and I turned, eyes blazing. I was furious that I had let Spot hit me, embarrassed that he had run off, and disgusted at what the rude, uncouth boy had confessed. Leaning over, I wrenched the cards from Racetrack's hands and dealt myself a game of solitaire. The cards soared haphazardly across the unfinished table. Reaching over, Racetrack reaped the cards and set them in a neat pile in the center of the table. He and I each took one of the bits of paper that were already bent beyond recognition of the backing pattern. For a few silent moments, we both folded the corners into faint creases.  
  
"Yehs, eh, yehs wanna tawk about sometin'?" His voice was strangely soft and left a great deal open. Racetrack tossed the card onto the pile so that it sat askew on the others. He looked to me as I continued to mangle the card I held. Downcast, my eyes remained turned away. In a sigh, I glanced up at Racetrack and shrugged. He made to light his cigar, but quickly blew out the match, though he did not drop the cigar.  
  
Closing my eyes, I lay my head on my hands and sighed, musing the situation I had caused. Guilt came easily, and I knew that if I hadn't been shocked here and found by generous Racetrack, I never would have caused such problems. Since I had arrived, I had deceived every person I had met and nothing but distrust and hatred had come of it.  
  
"I'm a liar, Racetrack," I muttered, abandoning my adapted accent. Though it had only been the day, I knew the confession must come. I found it suddenly awkward to speak as I normally do, but I plowed on. Racetrack shook his head and struggled to argue my point, yet I stopped him. "I'm not from New York. I'm from Boston." I saw him shrug out of the corner of my eye, and I tore fringe along the edge of my card. "That's not it. My mother and father aren't dead, and I didn't get kicked out of my apartment. I have twenty dollars in my pockets, but it's all worthless. And here's the clincher, which I don't expect you to believe. I'm not from 1899. I'm from 2002. I don't know how I got here, but if I was able to stay here without ruining your lives, I would. I've fallen in love with this time, this era. It's so much simpler than when I come from. But I'm clearly not cut out for it. I'm scrambling your time and I can't even sell enough papers to keep myself alive."  
  
Racetrack was silent for a moment, chewing on the end of his cigar. Then without turning his head, he lifted a hand and patted mine, which had been moistened with a tear of despair and guilt. He grasped my hand firmly and nodded suddenly.  
  
"Yeh's a good kid," Racetrack said quietly. "I dunno how yeh gots heah, but I knows yeh's a good kid. I can tell." He rotated in his chair and looked me in the eyes. It was now that I realized how very deep his eyes were. They held such warm friendliness and respectful sympathy that I wished I were worthy enough to fall into his embrace. He smirked a little, his cigar forgotten in the ashtray. "Whatevah yeh's done da past day mighta been lyin' but I betcha it ain't nothin' none eh us ain't done." He chuckled and shook his head. "And yeh ain't dat bad wit yeh papes. Yeh jes in a little ovah yeh head feh yeh foist day. Yeh'll get bettah."  
  
Not able to bring myself to look him in the face, I kept my eyes on his hand, which still encompassed mine. I sniffled and held back a sob. Biting my lip, I shook my head and looked away, embarrassed and not quite sure Racetrack understood what I was saying.  
  
"I don't think you understand," I said bluntly, clearly hearing my scruples making themselves known in my shaky voice. "I don't deserve your kindness." My hand reached for the gilded pocket watch I had been lent that morning and slid it across the table. Racetrack stared at it for a moment before lifting his hand from mine and hefting the watch in his palm. It again clanked on the tabletop and Racetrack slid it back to me.  
  
"Keep it, Latch," he smiled, tapping it with his fingertip. "Yeh undahestimate yehself. Yeh a good kid. Don' let anyone else tell yeh diff'rent." I attempted to explain again why I was here, how I was here, and that I had started our acquaintances with lies, but he lifted a hand to stop me. "I's got it. Yeh ain't from this time. Makes sense, yeh know? But yeh okay. Just tell me dis. Yeh plannin' on goin' back any time soon?"  
  
"Never," I answered immediately. "I've absolutely fallen in love with this time. It's so beautiful here. Everyone's so kind. And I finally get the politics and business that are going on around me, after studying all this in history class."  
  
Racetrack grinned at my commentary on the times and looked immediately intrigued at my education. He leaned forward a little bit and pressed the watch into my hand before speaking, as though the token was a payment of sorts for the wisdom I may impart on him. His fingers wrapped around mine and smiled at me with curiosity.  
  
"Yeh had a good education in history, eh?" he chuckled. "Can yeh tell us what's gonna happen in da next ten yeahs?" As he withdrew his hand, I shrugged.  
  
"I never really understood history, really. I did well enough, though, but I was better in math and english. I was going to be a writer. Huh," I laughed. "I wanted to write the newspapers and now I'm selling them."  
  
Racetrack's eyes went wide and glittered with wonder. He smiled mindlessly and moved even closer to me, hanging on my every word. Settling in his chair, Racetrack rested his elbow on the back and supported his chin. It was an adoring moment on his part before he spoke again.  
  
"Yeh got a full education, eh? I bet yeh woulda been a great writah," he praised. "Yeh know, what with comin' up wit dem stories 'n' headlines so quick." Seeing me shrug, Racetrack laughed and shook his head. "Tell me 'bout yeh life in dis 2002. What's so complicated?"  
  
I smiled at the tabletop as I realized that I missed very little of my life in 2002. I cocked my head and half-closed my eyes in thought. Recalling the overly-elaborate technology, I chuckled to myself. Much preferring to actually do something, I enjoyed the prospect of manual labor to come. I looked up at Racetrack and noticed he was waiting patiently for an answer. I sighed.  
  
"To his heart," I muttered. Racetrack cocked an eyebrow at my answer and I made a face. "Spot claims he called me Latch because I have the key 'to his heart.' Flipped out when I made him tell me, too."  
  
"I see," Racetrack laughed. "I didn' see dat comin' from 'im. Dat's cute." He picked up his cigar yet again and chewed it, watching me grimace at both his action and the recollection of Spot's admission. He realized my time was a subject I wasn't ready to broach right then.  
  
"It sickens me," I stated. Race laughed loudly at my comment and asked me to explain myself. "Well, he's arrogant. He thinks he's God's gift to men, women and newsies alike. He's rude, disrespectful, uncouth, uncultured, inconsiderate, insensitive and vulgar." I nodded to punctuate my statement. Race picked up the untouched card on the table and turned it over. The Queen of Hearts showed itself and he grinned.  
  
"Remembah dat cahd," he pointed, tapping the face. "No mattah what yeh think yeh do, remembah dat card. Dat's what I tink eh yeh, okay? 'N' if yeh needs ta tawk about Spot, lemme know. I'd be glad ta soak 'im voibally." Racetrack patted my cheek tenderly.  
  
There was a pause, and I fingered the card idly as I watched Racetrack sit in thought. He finally turned to me and pulled his eyebrows together in confusion. I raised an eyebrow on challenge, and Race spoke quietly.  
  
"I don' undahstand why yeh hate Spot so much. So many odda goils love 'im, even wit knowin' how high falutin' he is. Why not yeh?" He waited patiently.  
  
"I don't like guys that are so hoity-toity. I like guys that respect me as well as themselves." I stood, sensing curfew soon, and pushed in my chair before turning to the door. "Guys like you," I shrugged simply, smiling forlornly at Racetrack. "Good night."  
  
"Yeh, 'night, Latch." He waved briefly as I closed the door with a slight click. I had barely reached my room at the top of the stairs when Kloppman tapped on my door and called in for curfew. I hollered back that I was indeed present and solitary, and satisfied, he left. I heard him descend the stairs as I nodded off.  
  
  
  
It was Kloppman's trademark rap that woke me the next morning, and my first thought was not any habitual complaint of alarms or classes, but the realization that I had only twenty-five cents on me. That would easily get me fifty papes, I calculated. However, if I had the same incredible luck I had the day before, I would quickly lose profits. I decided to grit my teeth and bear it.  
  
In the next few moments, a familiar tune floated up from the boys' room below me and I grinned, throwing on my dress and boots and jerking my hair back in a violent ponytail. Tripping down the stairs, I joined the boys on their way to the distribution office, supporting the verses with a light soprano that only reached a handful of notes in the low range. I jumped a few barrels with the boys, but promptly fell on my bottom, my feet soaring over my head. A strong arm helped me up gently and I spun to thank them, seeing only a friendly smile I couldn't name leap in the opposite direction. I sang a few words of thanks in a gentle counterpoint to the waking up of the boys.  
  
As the song began to wind down, Racetrack grabbed my arm and grinned a good morning. The last notes faded and we jogged to the window, past a few crates and up the slip and slide ramp to the bars. Racetrack hugged my shoulders with one arm and lifted a fresh cigar to his lips with the others.  
  
"How'd yeh sleep, Latch, goil?" he asked jauntily. I shrugged to his laughter while slipping a hand into my little pouch which was tied around my waist. Not having pockets in the dress which I wore, such an accessory was also a necessity. Also in the pouch I found Racetrack's watch. I fingered it dearly and leaned against the brick wall as I waited. Racetrack soon joined me against the cool stone. "Hey, I's been tinkin' 'bout what yeh said las' night."  
  
In a sideways glance, I watched Racetrack scratch his head and retract his cigar. I nodded, urging him on.  
  
"'Bout why yeh don' like Spot." He paused, and my eyes followed his to the distraction.  
  
There, across the alley, we found Jack facing a wall and seemingly having a very in depth conversation with the bricks. I raised an eyebrow and suddenly saw a mop of light curly hair peek out from the wall. Racetrack and I observed Jack lean towards David. We thought nothing of it until David's arms snaked over Jack's shoulders. A loud catcall came from my right and I turned, wide-eyed, to admonish Racetrack.  
  
"Heya, Jack! Roped a good one, dere, Cowboy!" Shaking my head, I stepped forward and pressed Racetrack up in line. He waved and received a thumbs up over Jack's shoulder. "So, likes I was sayin'," Racetrack continued. "I was tinkin' 'bout what yeh said last night 'bout Spot 'n' how yeh compared 'im ta me."  
  
I waited, expecting further verbal elaboration that didn't come. By laying a hand on his shoulder, I urged him on in the line and he fiddled with his cigar in an awkward pause.  
  
"Yeh ain't been sayin' much this morning," he suddenly sputtered, glancing away. I chuckled and sighed.  
  
"I haven't had my coffee yet," I answered languidly. His brow rose at the absence of my accent, but he said nothing. Clearly, the explanation was not coming quickly and I thought it best not to press him. Racetrack slumped against the wall once more and bit his lip. I decided nervous looked quite favorable on this boy's face.  
  
"I's guess I was jes glad yeh knows I respect yeh," he muttered. I instantly jumped in to continue the line of conversation.  
  
"You were really sweet last night, Racetrack. I didn't expect you to be nearly as accepting of my confessions as you were. You really helped me out." He looked up at me with a quirk of confusion in his dark eyes and I blushed. "I haven't really had many friends, so you've really helped me out." I felt a slight warmth on the back of my hand and I glanced down to see Racetrack had taken up my hand.  
  
We reached the window, and Racetrack bartered for his fifty papers with what he tried to pass off as a sure bet. Unsurprisingly, he got his papers and sat on the step to flip through the thin pages. I hesitated and ordered twenty papers, reserving a few cents for any poker game that might show up in my face.  
  
"I've turned into you," I teased, taking a seat next to the Irish newsie. "I'm putting money aside to bet with."  
  
Racetrack hushed me dramatically, grinning, and indicated that Weasel was not to know that he had a fifty-cent piece in his pocket. His cigar went back into his pocket absently as he turned his paper over. I skimmed for a good headline and managed to discover a few that I could decipher and spice up. Jabbing at the text with my finger, I motioned to Racetrack and offered a few suggestions. He helped me settle on my angle and stood to head off when I nabbed his arm, guilt at my selective truth from the night before welling up in me. Racetrack returned to his seat and cocked an eyebrow in prodding. I motioned to his pocket and suggested he start his cigar. He complied without contest and tucked a leg under him.  
  
"I never told you what happened with Spot last night," I sighed. Racetrack made a very confused face and shook his head. Removing his hat, he scratched his head.  
  
"Yeah, yeh did. He tol' yeh dat yeh had da key ta his heart and den he left."  
  
"That's not all of it, Racetrack," I sighed, shaking my head. "I told him off royally, insulted him several times and threatened him more than once. Once I forced the confession out of him, he punched me and ran off, looking very hurt and very angry, which I don't blame him for." Folding my papers, I stood. Racetrack stood as I did and called out before I could depart.  
  
"He hit yeh?!" Racetrack hollered, his dark eyes flashing with outrage. "I'll soak da bummah!" I watched him start in the direction of Brooklyn and couldn't help chuckling. I soon stopped him and dragged him back. "He nevah shoulda touched yeh!"  
  
"It's all right, Racetrack. I had it coming." I shrugged and shouldered my papers.  
  
"Even if yeh did, even dis bummah knows bettah den ta hit a lady!" He glanced at me and reddened. "Not dat yeh can' take 'im. He's what, tree feet tall?" I chuckled and Race cupped my cheek to peer in my eyes. "Yeh okay, though? He didn' hoit yeh, did he? Cuz I'd be happy ta pound 'im."  
  
"I'm okay, Racetrack," I whispered. His rough fingers worriedly stroked my cheek. Rolling my eyes, I averted my gaze slightly, focusing feebly on the spectacle of Jack and David blatantly showing affection. Racetrack gently forced my eyes back to his and squinted. Respectfully, I pried his hand from my chin and once more shouldered my papers. "But thanks for being so concerned."  
  
I had inadvertently reverted to my common Boston accent in the night and it had not yet been brought to my attention. The dark-haired boy's light voice called out to me and I turned, annoyed that I had yet to begin selling my wares. Pursing my lips in irritation, I raised my eyebrows in question. Racetrack smirked.  
  
"Yeh accent's gone crazy," he chuckled. I titled my head, indicating an explanation was needed. "Yeh ain't gonna sell no papes with dat Boston accent. I knows yeh can pull out dat New Yawk street accent."  
  
In a sudden moment, it seemed as though my accent would not come. I formed a few trial words and they came out sounding only uneducated, not street smart. I looked wildly at Racetrack and realized I must be thinking too hard. He walked with me down a main street and suggested I try again. His eyes sparked and he looked away.  
  
"Hey, I hoid Spot's comin' up ta Manhattan again ta play pokah tanight. I tink he said sometin' 'bout yeh incredible form and yeh-"  
  
"I'll soak da bummah!" I exclaimed bluntly. After a moment of fuming, I startlingly noticed what Racetrack was doing. "Ah, tanks, yeh honah," I grinned. "Yeh's been a great help."  
  
Racetrack lifted a hand in departure and turned at the corner to find his own selling spot. I decided to try the corner itself, and hawked my headlines the best I could. In the course of an hour, I had sold six papers easily. I pocketed the change eagerly and decided it was time to move on. Strolling down the street, I headed toward the next block, hoping for equal luck.  
  
It was just about time to start back to the distribution office when I reached for another paper to hawk and found that my stack had dwindled and disappeared. Grinning, I raced back to the office, bouncing my purse against my leg and relishing the sound of ten cents profit jangling.  
  
"Racetrack!" I shouted, running up to the line. He was a good handful of people ahead of me, but he ducked out and jogged back to me. "Race! I's sold alla me papes!" I gasped excitedly. Racetrack burst into a grin and swept his arms around me in a victorious embrace.  
  
"Congratulations, Latch!" he laughed, kissing my cheek. "I's gonna take yeh ta da races wit me tanight, feh celebratin'." Tugging on my arm, Racetrack hauled me up to his space in line. Several protests were bellowed, but not one reached my ears, as I was a little distracted by the lingering warmth from Racetrack's lips. He turned to me sharply and narrowed his eyes. "Yeh called me Race," he stated. I nodded nervously. "Yeh ain't nevah called me Race 'fore. Yeh always calls me Racetrack."  
  
Worried at what his reaction might become, I nodded honestly and bit my lip. Expecting anger or at the very least, indignant sulking, I was surprised that a beaming smile reached my eyes. Racetrack ruffled my hair and pet my cheek lovingly.  
  
"Dat's sweet. Ain't no one ever called me Race quite like dat, neither. Gots kinda dat tendah quality ta it." He blushed a minute bit and I wondered if the color was for me or if he was regretting the lack of affection in his life generally. I made a point of taking up his hand and stepping a bit closer to him.  
  
"Yeh okay, Race?" I inquired, patting his hand. He pulled away from my grasp but immediately slung his arm around my shoulder. Pressing me against his chest, he hastily crashed his lips into mine. A little shocked and a lot flustered, I managed weakly to fling my arms around his neck. I must have surprised Racetrack, but he bounced back and embraced me about the waist. A loud whooping came from all around us, but we paid no heed. In fact, we embellished, Racetrack slamming me teasingly into the wall. When we finally broke, Racetrack, blushing fiercely, removed his hat and jammed it on my head, letting it hang over my eyes.  
  
"Yeah, I's okay, Latch," he grinned, stepping away from me and paying for his afternoon papers. I tugged on the brim of his hat and bit my lip as I smiled shyly.  
  
  
  
It was about a week later before I considered smoothing things over with Spot. I wasn't able to gloss over the evening edition every day. It was a habit I did not particularly want to get into, and even though Jack claims it's not the headline, it's the newsie, the headline could make or break you.  
  
I had played a very few games of poker, skunking everyone but Racetrack. He was still able to squeeze my last few cents out of me. Somehow, the exact amount Race won from me would always appear beside my bed the next morning as the first sight to greet my eyes.  
  
Things had changed between Racetrack and I. We were a little closer and he seemed to accept me more readily than the others did. I'm not sure he quite understood the premises under which I was there, but neither did I, so we lived in ignorant bliss.  
  
And bliss it was, indeed. While Racetrack and I were not heavily involved, I was respected as 'his goil' and anyone who suggested otherwise was mysteriously soaked. I didn't really consider Racetrack further than a shoulder to cry on and a boost of self-confidence, two things which I lacked in my time. He would kiss me now and then, but it was always tender and comforting, never heated. He seemed to pat my cheek more often than before, but my reference point was flimsy at twenty-four hours.  
  
So, anyway, it was a week since I had last seen Spot when I decided to speak with him. I slunk out of the lodging house and headed toward Brooklyn early. I decided finding Brooklyn wouldn't be too hard. Find a big bridge, cross it, hello, Brooklyn. However, finding a person in Brooklyn would be more difficult. But I would cross that bridge when I got to it, pardon my pun. I chose to find the Brooklyn Distribution Office and work from there.  
  
Waiting across the alleyway from the winding line to the barred window, I slumped against the bricks and glared at the boys, ramming Racetrack's hat over my slit eyes. One by one, the Brooklyn newsies crossed my path, not one exempt from my scrutiny. Several tall, a few more short, brunettes, blondes, a redhead or two and the tiniest boy that could rival Les for shortest newsie. But no Spot Conlon showed. I grabbed a tall, thin brunette with wide, dark eyes and he stared at me with surprise.  
  
"Yeh seen Spot Conlon dis mornin'?" I demanded. Scared and a little taken aback, the boy blinked several times and shook his head. Flushing brightly, he nodded immediately. He lifted a shaky hand and pointed deeper into Brooklyn.  
  
"He bought his papes oily taday. I tink he's down by da hahbah," he stammered in a flimsy tenor. My grip tightened on the boy's arm and he gulped audibly. I pulled him down to me and glared into his eyes as I had seen Spot do to David in the film. I nodded accusingly.  
  
"Oh yeah? Yeah?" I whispered. "Yeh wanna gimme a little bit eh help gettin' dere or are yeh gonna lemme wandah da streets til I find it?" I threw the young man away from me a bit and he stumbled, clamping an arm over his papers, protecting them from the puddle he teetered on. He gestured down the street and gave weak directions to the piers.  
  
A light breeze lifted the stray hairs on the back of my neck as I walked the dock to the very end. I leaned on the support post and stared up at the perch where Spot sat. My hand lifted to block the bright sun. I saw him squint down at me and suddenly smile. For a brief moment, I thought the grin was for me and my heavy heart lifted a touch. My hopes at being forgiven and forgotten were shattered, however, when Spot spoke in his tough guy voice that hinted much too much at boisterous young man.  
  
"Heya, Race, how's da track? Any hot tips feh me, yeh honah?" He chuckled at his own joke and started to climb down from his perch. He landed in a crouch before me and as he straightened, his face grew cold, observing the folds of fabric that hung from my hips. "Latch," he said icily, tipping his hat though his expression showed he hated to do it.  
  
"Spot," I returned, nodding. "I see yeh done oily dis mornin'." A noncommittal shrug was my only answer. Spot walked the pier's edge precariously as I watched from a comfortable vantage point, leaning against the same support pole I had found previously. My eyes followed Spot's hands as he reached for his slingshot. He took sharp aim just above my head and for a moment he seemed to align with the center of my forehead. Petrified he might actually let fly and recalling his perfect aim at the brown bottle with Boot's marbles, I attempted to appear casual and raise an accusing eyebrow. Spot let go and pulled up so that his ammunition cracked off a wooden beam a few inches from my head. I stood and stepped bravely towards the leggy brunette. "Dat's it, we needs ta tawk," I sighed, exasperated. My hand grasped his wiry wrist and I struggled to drag him off. I gave up and took to staring him in the eye as he remained as he was.  
  
For the first time since I met him, I was wary of Spot Conlon. His narrowed blue eyes seemed terribly evil just then and his cocky attitude came off as more hostility than arrogance. His stature was that of intimidation and the tactic worked. I was scared out of my skin, but I refused to show it. I held his gaze and I felt my lips thin as I stood. He nodded in that way that urged me on but assured me he was doing me the biggest favor in even allowing me in his presence.  
  
"I wanna apologize feh soakin' yeh da odda night," I stated clearly. "I ain't got no 'scuse feh it 'n' I's sorry." Spot crossed his arms and pursed his lips. At first, I thought he was fuming, but I soon saw a touch of frustration and embarrassment flare in his eyes.  
  
"Yeh didn' soak me, dollface," he said bitterly. I lifted my hands in defeat, nodded my agreement and let the affectionate nickname go. Spot's chin rose as did his eyebrow in indication that I could continue.  
  
I paused before going on. My mind slowly organized my words in a somewhat coherent fashion, then as I recalled the era, scattered them into a colloquialism. Spot seemed to be growing restless, and I stood tall before speaking. Opening my mouth, I heard the water sloshing under the pier and I glanced to my left, over the rail. I realized how high I was and that if I were to fall, or Spot to push me, my skirts would water log me beyond self preservation. I swallowed harshly and stepped more towards the center of the dock.  
  
"Okay, so I's didn' soak yeh. But I's got a confession ta make." Another pause, and Spot's eyes locked on me, burning my skin worse than the sun. "I ain't from-" I cut off and reverted to my traditional accent. "I'm not from around here, Spot. I'm from Boston, and, though I'm sure you won't believe me, I'm from the year 2002. I understand if you don't trust me, but it's the truth and I think you deserve to know. Now, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings last week, but I won't take back what I said. You seem like a decent enough kid and I'm sure if I gave you a chance, we could probably be friends. But I don't see you giving me the chance to give you a chance."  
  
Spot licked his chapped lips. Once he had perused the scene as though he had not stood there every day for the past several years, his eyes once more snapped to mine. He bit his lip and I took surprising note of how white his teeth were for a kid in 1899. As I realized he wasn't about to say anything, much less forgive me for what I had said and done, I turned to head back to Manhattan. Perhaps I would be able to catch the afternoon edition of The World.  
  
As I walked away, I focused greatly on the resonating sound of my heels clicking on the wooden pier. By the time I had set foot on dry ground, Spot's innocently tinged voice reached my ears. I turned and glanced up from the grass.  
  
"Yeh tink I'm a decent enough kid?"  
  
His question held a note of sadness and I blinked as a pause. He seemed to have glossed over my confession as easily as Racetrack had, and I wondered if perhaps this was really one of my twisted dreams or if people from this age were more susceptible to odd stories. Spot's cheeks flamed though he held my gaze proudly.  
  
"Yeah," I admitted. "I think you'd be a really good card to have in my hand." Spot lifted a palm and shook his head in disgust.  
  
"Cut da accent," he groaned. "Yeh sound too educated. Use da street accent like I know yeh can. I love a goil dat can tawk like she's tough."  
  
"I ain't lookin' feh yeh love, Spot, I jes wan' yeh behin' me." I held up a hand to cut the sly innuendo I knew was coming. He grinned and nodded, spitting in his palm before meeting my lifted hand.  
  
"Den yeh got me, Latch." Spot's maddening grin widened and he pulled me into a friendly hug. "Yeh bettah get back ta da Manhattan Office 'n' get yeh papes feh da aftanoon."  
  
I shook his hand and tipped Racetrack's hat before turning. I was about a block away when I saw him over my shoulder. Raising an eyebrow, I continued on as though I had not seen him. His hand laid on my shoulder to stop me, however, and I was forced to turn. Spot smiled and fell into step to my right, shielding me from the busy street.  
  
"Hey, yeh didn' tink I was gonna let yeh wandah da street alone, did yeh?" His staff swung idly by his side and I watched it curiously. Noting my stare, Spot smiled secretively and remarked, "dat's a whole 'nudda story, Latch." Accepting this fact, I nodded and walked on. When Spot's arm was slung over my shoulder, I shrugged it off gently and stepped ahead. He tried this again several times on our way back to Manhattan. Laughing over my shoulder at him, I ran ahead to slip into the queue. He lagged behind and watched the scene unfold.  
  
I had been waiting for a few moments when Racetrack passed me, flipping through one paper distractedly with the others under his arm. Pretending to yawn, I flung out an arm and came into sharp contact with his side. As he turned to complain loudly, I grinned and watched his eyes grow wide.  
  
"I was worried 'bout yeh when I didn' see yeh dis mornin'! I thought maybe yeh'd been--" he cut out, waving his hand in that secretive motion. I shook my head and pointed rudely to Spot, who stuck his tongue out as he fell against the wall, fingering his slingshot. Racetrack pulled his eyebrows together in puzzlement.  
  
"I went ta see Spot dis mornin' 'n' apologize feh what I done ta 'im las' week." I embraced Racetrack warmly and tentatively kissed his cheek. "It's nice ta know yeh's worried 'bout me, sugah." Over Racetrack's shoulder I could see a shade of bitter resentment pass over Spot's face, but when he met my gaze, he tipped his hat and waved before turning towards Brooklyn.  
  
"'Course I's worried 'bout yeh, Latch. Yeh a...good friend eh mine." Smiling oddly, Racetrack patted my cheek. Before he could remove his palm, I clapped my hand over it. His eyes snapped to mine and he blinked. My eyes grew demanding.  
  
"How good?"  
  
Racetrack's eyes went wide and panicky. For a moment I could almost hear his heart thudding with apprehension. His eyes darted to the file for papers and back to me.  
  
"Uh, real good?" he gulped. I felt his palm moisten against my cheek and Racetrack's gaze dropped frequently to the cigar in his pocket. "Okay, more'n a good friend?" Another awkward moment passed and Racetrack's face suddenly became weary and tired. "Oh, fehget it," he groaned, using his vantage point to pull me up to his mouth and kiss me passionately. He broke off and swallowed nervously. "Dat good."  
  
Racetrack shuffled his feet anxiously and tried to look away, anywhere, even if it was only over my shoulder. I let his hand drop and he grabbed his cigar. Grinning madly, I allowed him to light up. He glanced shortly at me and took a long drag before extinguishing the end and tucking it away. Glad of the opportunity to turn his head, he blew the smoke violently in the opposite direction. Eyes watering, I flung my arms around Racetrack's neck and plastered myself to him. Surprised but pliant, he accepted me.  
  
"What are da odds?" I laughed, kissing his cheek gently.  
  
"Feh da foist time in me life, I ain't got da faintest idea!" Race grinned, pulling me into line. "C'mon, yeh sellin' wit me dis aftanoon!"  
  
I tagged along happily, looking over my shoulder and catching Spot waving politely to me. 


End file.
